


Control and Release

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: Facts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Control Issues, Everybody is a BAMF sometimes, Kidnapping!, M/M, Mycroft and Greg are working things out, Relationship Negotiations, Sherlock is still weirdly scientific about John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and John try to be perfect for each other, Mycroft and Greg learn that sometimes imperfection is a good thing, and everybody steps up to the plate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock, Wooing John with Science

**Author's Note:**

> This probably won't make much sense unless you read "Rules and Exceptions" first.

Sherlock Holmes lay in bed, propped up on one elbow, his eyes fixed on the golden length of John Watson’s naked body. The doctor was asleep, face down, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. He made a slight snuffling noise every time he breathed. Sherlock was memorizing it. 

He’d gotten in trouble once before for watching John sleep, but that was before their relationship had altered fundamentally, and now it was allowed. Sherlock had checked, just to make sure, on the first night they’d spent in bed together, eight days ago, after what Sherlock had taken to thinking of as the Change. John had laughed and mumbled sleepily that he couldn’t see why Sherlock would want to do that, but if he did, it was okay with him. 

Sherlock didn’t understand why John didn’t think he would be interested in watching him sleep. He was interested in everything about John, every last detail, especially the ones no one else had ever noticed before. Now that he knew John welcomed this interest, Sherlock had taken his “John” notebooks and spread them page by page across the wall of his bedroom, tacking up new ones at unprecedented speed. He hadn’t shown John yet, but he would eventually, when the wall was magnificent enough, fitting proof of Sherlock’s extraordinary devotion to the man. When John saw them, he would understand that Sherlock loved him in a way that no one else ever had or ever could. He would see that Sherlock was incredible, and he would never, ever leave. 

The “John”pages were extremely useful in another sense, in that they recorded information that Sherlock was now employing daily in order to keep John here in the meantime. For instance, there was an entire column of them, floor-to-ceiling and three pages wide, that detailed what Sherlock had learned about John’s sexual preferences so far. Precise diagrams of the doctor’s body bore annotations concerning points of particular pleasure; various charts measured arousal levels corresponding with various acts, based on pupil dilation, shortness of breath, pulse rate, etc. It was Sherlock’s goal to provide John with the most exceptional sex of his life, often and in perpetuity. And it didn’t hurt that nothing aroused Sherlock more than making deductions about John. 

Many of the “John” pages had to do with food, as John was particularly fond of the stuff. Sherlock had been recording the doctor’s preferences and habits in that arena almost since the day they had met, so it was a satisfyingly comprehensive collection of data. More difficult was figuring out exactly what to do with it. Sherlock was not about to start making John tea or cooking his favorite meals; any idiot could manage that—Sherlock knew for a fact that some of John’s ex-girlfriends  _had_  managed it, actually, and he absolutely refused to do anything another lover was capable of accomplishing. Sherlock was not like John’s former lovers. Sherlock was exceptional, and he needed John to see that. 

Eventually, he had hit on a brilliant idea: on the third day since the Change, while John was at the clinic, Sherlock ordered John’s favorite dish from every single one of their regular eating places—thirteen in total, if you included the baklava from the Greek diner down the road—and when John returned, they sat arrayed on the table, steam rising from the foam cartons. John had stood gaping in the doorway, and then, understanding what he was seeing, had swiftly crossed the room and kissed Sherlock fiercely on the mouth. Then, laughing uncontrollably (Sherlock hadn’t quite seen what was funny), he’d sampled each dish in turn. 

It had been one of Sherlock’s more brilliant ideas. 

They had spent the fourth day (like the first and the second) almost entirely in bed, and on the fifth, Sherlock had solved a locked-room murder in record time, positively sparkling as John watched with undisguised admiration. That, at least, was something Sherlock knew none of John’s former lovers could have done. On the sixth day, Sherlock learned the entirety of the  _White Album_ on the violin while John was at the clinic, and gave the doctor a concert when he got home. That had been very good, too. 

Yesterday, the seventh, Sherlock had been sneaky and removed fibers from each of John’s favorite jumpers while John was asleep, then employed Mrs. Hudson to distract the doctor while Sherlock visited a number of department stores, searching for a jumper that would combine all John’s preexisting jumpers into what Sherlock had taken to calling the  _super-jumper_. Sherlock had calculated everything from thickness to texture to size to color (though he had to admit that he’d failed to be strictly scientific as far as the last factor went—there was only so far he would cater to John’s bad taste) until he had the image of the super-jumper in his head; all he’d had to do then was find it. 

That had been harder than Sherlock had anticipated. He’d gotten thrown out of Harrods almost immediately, reduced not one, not two, but three salespeople to tears, and found himself so overwhelmed by the sheer number of screaming babies in Marks & Spencer that he’d had to leave. Eventually, however, he had triumphed, finding the super-jumper on a clearance rack at Debenhams, of all places. It wasn’t precisely perfect—next time he was having it handmade, he promised himself—but it was near enough. He’d hidden it under his floorboards (no point taking risks, though Sherlock doubted John would even be able to deduce that Sherlock had bought him something in the first place, let alone where it was) and suppressed all curious questions about his whereabouts during the day with a well-placed hand up John’s shirt. 

Now, on the morning of the eighth day since the Change, Sherlock tore himself away from a sleeping John, and retrieved the super-jumper from its secret location. 

“John,” he whispered, prodding the doctor with one long finger. “You’re cold.” 

He had read once that the sleeping brain responded with particular pliancy to suggestions, accepting them as truth once the sleeper awoke. He hadn’t had time to make a scientific study of it, but he tried it now in case it was accurate. John burrowed into the pillow and Sherlock prodded him again. 

“Whassit?” he asked blearily, turning onto his back, granting Sherlock with the sight of his glorious nakedness full on. “Sherlock?” He blinked a few times and then, out of habit born in the army, sat up straight, fully awake. 

“Did you just wake me up?” he demanded. 

“I missed you,” Sherlock said, which he knew would be effective, but which was also the truth. 

John looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or scold. He settled for something in between, his face taking on a delightfully wrinkled expression that Sherlock immediately committed to memory. 

“Jesus, it’s cold,” John said, reaching for the blankets, and though it wasn’t conclusive, Sherlock made a mental note of the tentative success of his experiment in suggestion. 

“Here,” he said helpfully, proffering the super-jumper. “Try this.” 

John blinked. “What’s this?” 

“A jumper,” Sherlock said with some impatience. “Obviously.” 

“Yes, but…is it yours? I’ve not seen it before.” 

Sherlock puffed his chest out proudly. “I bought it for you. It is a nearly precise amalgamation of the qualities you like most about each of your favorite jumpers. Approximately three-quarters of an inch thick, sixty percent wool and forty percent cotton, cable-knit; the color’s a bit off, too much yellow in the yarn, but given the atrocities that pass as clothing in today’s department stores I was lucky to find one that wasn’t neon green.” 

John reached out and fingered the fabric. “Those…are the qualities I like most in my favorite jumpers?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.” 

“Not of course, Sherlock, I didn’t even know that.” 

He didn’t look quite right—not happy enough, and he wasn’t kissing Sherlock yet, which was a bad sign. Sherlock felt suddenly worried—had he done something  _not good_ again? But what could John possibly object to about a jumper?—and frowned to cover up his anxiety. 

“I haven’t miscalculated,” he said, an edge in his voice. 

“What? No, no, I’m sure you haven’t. It’s just…” John hesitated, searching for words. “You don’t have to. Well. Do this, Sherlock. You don’t have to, I don’t know, impress me or convince me that—it’s just, first there was the food, then the violin, and—god, yes, they’re lovely, they’re  _perfect_ , but they make me…I can’t…I don’t know how to respond, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock felt his insides shriveling up. “Ah,” he said, voice suddenly cool. “Very well, then.” He took the jumper out of John’s hands, folding it away in his lap. 

“No, Sherlock, I don’t—hey. Sherlock. Look at me.” 

Grudgingly, Sherlock acquiesced. 

“It’s perfect. The jumper is perfect.” John kissed him, very sweetly, and Sherlock felt himself melting, just a little. “I only meant that sometimes I don’t know how I’ll ever live up to the things you do for me.” 

That was absurd, Sherlock thought, John didn’t have anything at all to live up to. Sherlock shook his head, frustrated at his inability to express this properly. John, meanwhile, grabbed the jumper from Sherlock’s lap and pulled it over his head. 

“You’re right,” he said, chuckling. “This  _is_ the perfect jumper.” 

Sherlock felt happiness and relief rush through him. He reached forward and pulled the blankets back, baring the lower half of John’s body again. Interesting: John, wearing a jumper and nothing else. This circumstance required further investigation. 

Judging by John’s muffled noise of surprise and delight as Sherlock lunged forward, John agreed.  

 

Later, after John had eaten breakfast and Sherlock (under protest) had eaten a bite of toast, they sat in companionable silence in the living room. John was working on his laptop, and Sherlock was attempting to deduce based on his posture and the speed of his typing whether or not he was going to put something in his blog about the Change. Sherlock disapproved of John’s blog as a rule—it was so sensational at times that it was practically fiction—but on the other hand, he would enjoy seeing the expressions on the faces of people at Scotland Yard once they’d found out; they would look even more idiotic than usual, probably, bug-eyed and mouths hanging open. Hm. Perhaps he’d better ask John to wait and tell them in person. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Boys, somebody left a letter for you on the doorstep!” Mrs. Hudson called out. “Are you decent?” 

Mrs. Hudson, in a feat of deduction that Sherlock had found mildly impressive, had known the Change had happened almost immediately. Since then she’d taken extra care to knock before entering, usually asking if they were clothed as well, which never failed to make John blush; Sherlock found it quite practical of her, however—he didn’t much care about being seen naked with or without John, so if she wished to avoid it he was glad she was taking the necessary precautions herself. 

“We’re fine, yep, thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” John called out, face distinctly pink. 

Their landlady opened the door. “Look at you two,” she said, beaming fondly, though Sherlock and John were doing nothing at all unusual. Mrs. Hudson pulled an envelope from her housecoat and gave it to Sherlock. 

“Found this on the doorstep when I went out to check the weather. The man on the telly said it was meant to be sunny today but my hip’s been acting up, which always means rain, and sure enough when I looked outside it was cloudy and grey. I always say that there’s no better barometer than my old hip—” 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you can go now,” Sherlock interrupted, putting the envelope up to his nose and sniffing. 

“Sher—sorry, Mrs. Hudson, he’s only had one case this week,” John apologized. “Think he’s been a bit bored.” 

Sherlock looked up, suddenly outraged— _bored_? How on earth could he have been  _bored_  when there was so much uncharted John territory to explore? 

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “Well, somehow I doubt that,” she said knowingly. “But that’s very kind of you to say. You’re always very kind, John.” She looked at Sherlock as she said this, but her reprimanding tone was belied by the affection in her eyes. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.” 

She bustled away. Sherlock turned his attention back to the envelope. Carefully, he opened it—sealed with tape, not glue and saliva—and extracted the letter from inside. Plain white paper, folded in three sections. “Handwritten,” he murmured, “whoever wrote this pushed the pen hard into the paper, it’s made deep grooves—probably indicates anxiety, but also determination; not just a casual inquiry, this one—the “i’s” are dotted ahead of the letter, the writer was in a hurry…The printing is almost unusually standard otherwise, it could have come straight out of a primary school textbook: the writer is likely either unimaginative or neurotically precise or, just possibly, wished to disguise his or her handwriting.” 

“And what does it say?” John asked, looking at him with undisguised interest— _oh._ John was interested in Sherlock, not the letter. In watching Sherlock deduce every last detail of the letter. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and Sherlock shuddered. 

 _“Dear Mr. Holmes,”_ he read,  _“Please help me. I believe my husband may be poisoning me. I cannot come to Baker Street, as it is too far from my home and my husband is very suspicious when I am absent for long (he works from home). I managed to sneak this letter to my sister, who said she would deliver it to you. If you meet me this afternoon, Thursday, at 2 p.m. in the Sainsburys in Holborn, in the bakery aisle, I will be eternally grateful. Sincerely, a woman in need.”_  

Sherlock rattled off a string of deductions about the woman’s marriage, economic status, husband’s line of work and preferred cigarette brand, and sister’s fondness for jam doughnuts, and John looked at him with increasingly blatant hunger. Sherlock felt his mind grow fuzzier as John walked over and stood in front of Sherlock’s chair, his knees brushing Sherlock’s, looking down at the taller man for once as Sherlock’s final deduction caught in his throat. 

“Finished?” John asked softly. 

Sherlock looked again at the letter. Something snagged in his mind, something elusive, and he frowned, drawn in again despite John’s fingertips resting lightly on his leg. 

“There is something…I think there’s something else, something not quite…” 

Sherlock’s voice faltered as John slid into his lap, bringing his lips an inch from Sherlock’s. 

“Yeah?” John said, voice low. “Something not quite?” 

John rocked gently against him, once, and Sherlock whimpered despite himself. John slipped his left thumb under Sherlock’s collar, stroking his collarbone. 

“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re being brilliant,” he growled, breath hot on Sherlock’s ear. 

“I’m always brilliant,” Sherlock managed, keeping his voice as steady as possible. 

“Well then,” John said, his tongue slipping out to trail along Sherlock’s neck, “it’s a wonder I can ever keep my hands off you.” 

Sherlock let the letter fall to the floor as John slipped his hand into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and any further thoughts about it were lost in the warmth of John’s fingers and the roaring in his ears.  

 

At two p.m.—clean and crisp once again, though the memory of John’s mouth and fingers still lingered hazily in Sherlock’s mind—the detective stood alone in the Sainsburys bakery aisle. He’d left John asleep on their sofa; the doctor would be irritated about it later, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to bear the thought of waking him. He allowed himself a small smile as he pictured John’s chest rising and falling as he slept, then flicked his eyes back and forth, looking for a woman of below-average height and oft-mended clothes, probably with long sleeves to hide the marks of an abusive marriage. Instead, as he feigned interest in a malt loaf, he caught a glimpse of someone very tall and very out of place at one end of the aisle. Slowly, a low hum of warning filling his head, and he straightened up, looking out of the corner of his eye towards the other end of the aisle. Another tall man stood there, subtly muscled below an expensive black suit. 

Sherlock put his hand to his pocket to reach for his mobile and the two men were upon him. They didn’t say a word, but one of them slid his jacket aside for a brief moment to show Sherlock the gleaming butt of a gun. 

It occurred to Sherlock that he had made a slight miscalculation. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice cool, ignoring his quickening pulse. 

“I think you’ll want to come with us, Mr. Holmes,” the taller of the men said softly. 

Sherlock weighed his options. Irritating, the whole situation. He could make a run for it, but he couldn’t guarantee that that wouldn’t end in injury for someone. And he couldn’t deny that he was a little bit curious as to the identity of his kidnappers, considering how neatly they’d managed to trap him. It didn’t smell like Moriarty—not quite aesthetic enough, the business with the letter—but it was possible, wasn’t it? 

Sherlock felt a jolt of adrenaline pulse through him. Oh, yes, he was  _ready._  

“Convenient of you to leave your doctor at home,” one of the two men said conversationally as they walked Sherlock out of the busy store and into a waiting car. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  _Oh, no_ , he thought, stomach sinking. John. John was going to be  _furious._

And then it hit him: what it was about the letter that had seemed wrong.  _Idiot,_  he was an idiot, how could he  _possibly_  have missed it? But he had. He’d sat right there in front of John and made a mistake. He’d sat right there in front of John and failed to be brilliant. 

John wasn’t going to be angry. It was much worse than that. John was going to be  _disappointed._


	2. Mycroft, Losing It

“I can play this game, Mycroft. I don’t want to, but you know I can. And I will.” 

Lestrade’s voice was low and dangerous on Mycroft’s voicemail. There was noise in the background: the crackle of a radio, raised voices, the wail of a siren; _crime scene_ , Mycroft deduced automatically, _a fresh one_. Yes, he knew the inspector could play this game—he’d played it, and played it well, the first time he’d tried to track Mycroft down, throwing himself against one bureaucratic roadblock after another to find a younger, drug-addicted Sherlock’s only close relative. Mycroft had given in then; he was very much afraid he would give in now. 

“For instance, I bet you’d be interested to know how I got this number,” Lestrade’s voice continued, milder now and yet no less dangerous. Mycroft had indeed wondered: this was a personal phone, one only Sherlock should have known about. “I persuaded John to find it for me. He got it off Sherlock’s mobile while Sherlock was asleep.” 

The circumstances under which John had easy access to a sleeping Sherlock’s phone were a recent development, and the pang of jealousy they caused Mycroft was both irritatingly painful and totally unacceptable. He suspected Lestrade was aware of this. 

“So. I may not be able track you down, Mycroft—I’m sure your security team would have something to say about that—but I can _wear_ you down. I’m not going to stop calling.” He let out a frustrated breath, and in the background Mycroft could hear someone yell his name. “Jesus, Mycroft, I just want to talk to you. It doesn’t even have to be in person. Just—call me back, yeah?” 

The message ended. Mycroft placed his mobile in his pocket and stepped back into the sitting room of the Diogenes Club. Blessed silence filled the air, broken only by the tiny crinkle of newsprint as the Home Secretary turned the pages of his paper. Mycroft sank into his customary chair, trying furiously to stop trembling. 

He hadn’t seen the man, in person or otherwise, since the morning, eight days prior, when the inspector had kissed him, tied him to a chair, taken what Mycroft absolutely refused to think of as his virginity (he wasn’t a sixteen-year-old girl, for god’s sake), and reduced Mycroft to a quivering, sniveling mess. Mycroft could think of about five hundred separate reasons he should neither see nor speak to the man again, but they all boiled down to the same thing: Lestrade was a liability. A liability of frankly terrifying and incalculable proportions. Anyone who could make Mycroft lose control like that was dangerous not only to Mycroft but to the nation. Not that he didn’t trust Lestrade, but he didn’t trust the rest of the world and he didn’t trust himself. Incredibly, Mycroft thought, Lestrade might be the only one he _did_ trust. How on earth had that happened? 

Maybe, Mycroft admitted with a shiver, it had something to do with having been totally at Lestrade’s mercy that day—both during the sex and after. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held him while he cried. His first nanny, perhaps (they’d gone through so many later, once Sherlock was old enough to be, well, Sherlock). He’d been eight when she left. After her departure, in fact, Mycroft hadn’t cried in front of anyone at all. 

There had been something terrible about it after so many years: the blind choking helplessness, the animal noises, the utter inability to force his body to behave. The sex had been like that, too, absolutely terrifying, like Mycroft was both completely outside of his body and completely in it, either too far away from or too trapped by it to have any say over what it was doing. His mind, too, had seemed both a riot of colorful static and entirely blank. The whole experience had been everything Mycroft had been stringently avoiding for his entire life, and Mycroft wanted with every fiber of his being for it to happen again. 

He knew it was a terrible idea. He knew that he would be risking his equanimity, his position, his very identity, really; he knew that his superiors—few and far between as they were—counted on him to be more or less an automaton, emotionless, sexless, cool and smooth as metal and gears. And he knew that he _didn’t_ know what Gregory Lestrade could possibly want from him at this juncture, and Mycroft never plunged into situations whose outcomes he could not predict with at least seventy-five percent accuracy. In this case, the only prediction he found himself making was that the inspector would either laugh in his face or run away screaming if he knew one one-hundredth of the things that were currently going on in Mycroft’s head. 

Mycroft also knew that for the last eight days, he’d felt like he was swimming underwater, everything languorous and blurry, and his response time was .67 seconds slower than normal, and night after night he’d found himself sitting alone in his office, staring at a blank TV screen, leaning back into his leather chair and feeling breathless with fear and arousal. 

Amongst the silent old men and wood-paneled walls, Mycroft crossed his legs and slipped his shaking hands between his knees.

 

 

He was finishing up a conference call with several members of the C.I.A. when Lestrade rang again. He let the Sherlock mobile go to voicemail and forced himself not to listen to it until he had debriefed his staff on the developments with the Americans. But as soon as he was in the corridor he found his hands grasping for the phone, fingers keying in the passwords before his mind could stop him. He brought the mobile to his ear, heart pounding. 

“I’ve reconsidered,” Lestrade said, sounding wearier than before; this time, there was no noise in the background save for a low hum that Mycroft recognized as the central heating in the older part of Scotland Yard. “I’m not going to keep trying to get in touch with you. I’m a grown man, I can take a hint. I’d still like to talk about what happened, because…well.” He sighed. “I don’t know. Never mind. Anyway, just thought I should call and tell you…that I won’t be calling.” His voice sounded wry; there was an incomplete sort of pause. “Bye, Mycroft.” 

The message ended. Mycroft let his hand fall from his ear, the mobile slipping into his pocket as he leaned back, breathing hard. He pressed his palms against the cool white surface of the wall, and then, when that didn’t help, unbuttoned his cuffs and slid one hand into his shirtsleeve, digging his fingernails into his skin. But the pain didn’t sharpen his mind like it had used to; instead, Mycroft had a vivid memory of the way Lestrade had buried his nails into the flesh of Mycroft’s torso and thighs. He felt himself growing half-hard at the thought, right there in the corridor, and nearly screamed in frustration: he had spent years learning to control his desires, and it hadn’t been since Mycroft was first out of university that he’d had an accidental erection. Mycroft pulled his hand from his sleeve and ran it over his face, suppressing the impulse to lie down on the floor and kick. 

It dawned on him that he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. 

He’d seen them, many of them, in his time with the government, and had watched them destroy men and women’s lives and careers. Mycroft felt his throat grow tight and his head grow light and airy. After a moment, it seemed that he was watching himself, braced against the wall, eyes bugged out, and not, it seemed, breathing very well; he appeared to be losing control of his legs, actually, and he watched with detached indifference as he stumbled, knees giving out beneath him. 

He hit the floor with a painful _thud_ and jerked back into his body, gasping for air. Oh god, he thought, oh god oh god. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Fighting to keep his head above water, struggling hard as his mind threatened to come loose from its moorings, Mycroft pulled his mobile from his pocket and tapped “recent calls.” He put the phone to his ear and listened as it rang, hoping desperately for an answer. 

“Mycroft?” Lestrade’s voice might have been eager, nervous, skeptical, angry; Mycroft, in that moment, hadn’t a hope of reading it. 

“Greg,” he said, sucking in a great lungful of air. “Ah. I. I need.” He couldn’t continue. 

Lestrade sounded surprised, or maybe alarmed. “Are you all right?” 

“I need to see you.” Mycroft forced the words out of his mouth. “Now. I need…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please.” 

“Of course,” Lestrade said immediately, and even Mycroft could tell that he was concerned. “Yes. Yes, I’ll…I’ll come get you. If that’s…If I’m allowed to know where…” 

Mycroft gave him an address, not even caring that it was a definite security breach. 

“Okay. Right. Ah. Shall I just—meet you out front, or…No. It’s fine. I’ll find you.” 

At these last words, a tiny spark of hope leapt in Mycroft’s chest.

 

 

And find him Lestrade did. By the time the D.I.’s battered blue car came to a hesitant stop across the street, Mycroft had managed to pull himself together enough to park himself on a bench nearby, hatless and coatless but not feeling the cold. He nearly tumbled into the inspector’s car, the stuffy warmth of the heater hitting him like a ton of bricks. 

“Inspector,” he said, managing to sound his usual self, and then found himself wordless again. 

“Is everything okay?” Lestrade asked, peering concernedly into Mycroft’s eyes, looking like he felt very much out of his depth. “Has something happened? No, I’m probably not meant to know, am I, probably a matter of national security, right, sorry—” 

“As a matter of fact,” Mycroft said with sudden detached clarity, “I am having a nervous breakdown.” 

Lestrade paled, looking terrified. Mycroft registered this with a sinking heart. If they were both terrified, not much good was going to come of it, now was it? Feeling it difficult to breathe again, Mycroft reached for the door handle. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, again in that peculiarly distant voice. “I should be going now.” 

But before he could open the door, Lestrade’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist, tightly enough to make Mycroft gasp. “No,” the inspector said, all trace of doubt gone from his face. “I don’t think so.” He let Mycroft go, but his touch lingered, smarting and red on Mycroft’s wrist. Some of the air seemed to come back into the car, and Mycroft placed his hand on his chest, feeling it move up and down again. That was good. 

“Now,” Lestrade said, voice rock solid, “put on that seatbelt. I’m taking you to mine. No breakdowns on the way, right?” 

Mycroft felt utterly relieved to have someone tell him what to do. Obediently, he clicked his seatbelt into place, leaning his head back against the faded cloth of the seat, and watched Lestrade pull out into traffic, cursing perfunctorily whenever a car got in his way. The inspector had forbidden him to have a breakdown, so he put his mind on a sort of bed rest, letting the sounds of traffic wash over him until they pulled up outside of Lestrade’s flat. 

Mycroft followed the inspector quietly upstairs, noting that he ought to be noticing things about the building—that it was new and clean and impersonal, unlike Lestrade’s well-worn car, and it was expensive, probably meant to convince the man that he would be all right after the divorce—but his mind was still humming emptily, in a merciful holding pattern. 

Lestrade’s flat was bare and barely touched, boxes stacked in messy piles against one wall, the furniture placed seemingly at random across the dark wooden floors. Lestrade moved toward a stiff green sofa and then seemed to realize that Mycroft was still hovering in the doorway. 

“All right,” he said, grasping the man by the elbow and sitting him down on the couch. “Sit.” He filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it to Mycroft. “Drink.” 

Mycroft did. It was amazing how much better he could breathe when he wasn’t also trying to decide what to do next. He drained the glass in one gulp and then held it out to Lestrade, who set it on the floor and stared at Mycroft. 

“Okay,” he said eventually. “Okay. Is this—” he gestured vaguely in Mycroft’s direction “—not that I want to presume, but is this about last week?” 

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. 

“Jesus.” Greg blew air from his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—yeah. I didn’t mean to—to do that to you. I—I really fucked up, didn’t I, just completely—Jesus, Mycroft, what are you doing?” 

Mycroft looked where the inspector’s eyes were pointed. Ah, that was interesting; his hand had moved of its own accord, and his fingers were digging once again into his forearm. He could feel it, now, sharp but distant; it wasn’t very helpful, but at least it was something. 

Lestrade grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his arm. He didn’t let go. Mycroft felt a rush of something heady and hot as he stared into the inspector’s eyes, wishing he could just dive in and get lost in their muddy brown depths. 

“What do you need?” Lestrade asked, voice even and steady, fingers firm around Mycroft’s wrist. “What can I do?” 

The answer was simple and terrifying. “Kiss me,” Mycroft whispered, voice raw and open and small, like he’d never heard it before. “Please kiss me.” 

Lestrade’s eyes widened, and he hesitated, but after searching Mycroft’s face, he leaned in and set his lips against Mycroft’s. 

Mycroft shut his eyes and let the kiss reach into his throat, down toward his chest and up into his brain and all the way to the tips of his fingers, warm and intoxicating, spreading like fog through all the sharp angles and taut strings of Mycroft’s inner landscape. Lestrade broke away for a moment and Mycroft fumbled at his collar. 

“More.” 

Lestrade leaned in, surer now, pressing Mycroft back against the couch, running his fingers firmly down the man’s neck and shoulders. Mycroft sank back, letting his arousal overtake him, moaning as Lestrade’s tongue broke into his mouth, wet and hot and powerful. He felt himself slipping and let himself fall back against the armrest, Lestrade landing on top of him, chest against Mycroft’s, arms on either side. Mycroft felt himself losing control, thrusting his pelvis up against the bigger man’s, making sounds he didn’t recognize, wishing Lestrade would push harder against him. 

“Please,” he gasped out. Lestrade pulled back and looked at him long and hard again, panting a little, but obviously not nearly past irrational thought. 

“Are you sure…” 

Mycroft let out a moan of frustration and slipped desperately out from under Lestrade’s arms. Abandoning all thought, all pride, all sense of his position in life and his carefully constructed sense of self, he flung himself face down across Lestrade’s bed. 

“Please,” he said again. 

There was a long pause. And then Lestrade’s weight was upon him, his crotch grinding into Mycroft’s arse, his hands hooked under Mycroft’s armpits for leverage, his breath hot and ragged in Mycroft’s ear. _Yes_ , Mycroft thought, and then his brain went white and he couldn’t remember any more words. Lestrade flipped Mycroft onto his front, divesting him of his jacket and ripping open the buttons of his waistcoat and his shirt, pulling them off Mycroft and throwing them on the floor. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mycroft groaned as Lestrade moved next to his trousers, and he reveled in the taste of the forbidden word on his lips. Lestrade pulled his trousers off and then his pants and then Mycroft was naked, exposed, trembling before Lestrade, drowning gloriously beneath the man’s strong hands. 

Lestrade flipped him over again, hand grabbing Mycroft’s ass and squeezing. “Stay,” he ordered, and Mycroft did, writhing against the bed as Lestrade stumbled, still clothed, to the stack of boxes on his floor. Mycroft could hear him shoving several aside, then rooting through several more, swearing urgently as the object of his search continued to evade him. Finally, he made a noise of triumph, and Mycroft turned his head to see the inspector holding a tub of petroleum jelly in one hand and a condom in another. 

Mycroft moaned. “Yeah,” Lestrade said, voice suddenly hot in Mycroft’s ear as he bent closer, fumbling with his own trousers, “I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck every thought out of that clever little head of yours.” 

 _How does he know,_ Mycroft wondered hazily, _how does he always know what I want,_ and then words fled again as he felt the tip of Lestrade’s bare cock brush his arse. There was a ripping sound and the noise of rubber against skin, and then Lestrade’s fingers, greasy with petroleum jelly, were digging down into Mycroft. 

White-hot sparks exploded in front of his closed eyes. Every single atom of Mycroft was concentrated on that one spot in his body, no room for thought or emotion or worry or anything but pure sensation, hard and sharp and demanding his full attention. It _hurt_ ; and Mycroft was so grateful that it hurt, because it meant he couldn’t possibly be distracted. Lestrade slid a third finger inside and Mycroft cried out, low and guttural, too loud and incapable of being quieter. 

“I’m not going to take it slow,” Lestrade warned him, voice barely but distinctly strained, and then he pulled out his fingers and thrust himself in. 

Mycroft shouted, biting down on the pillow, sucking air as if through a straw, the whole lower half of his body on fire. Lestrade rode him hard, with each thrust driving Mycroft further and further out of his mind. It could have been two minutes or two hours when he felt the man grow tense and rigid on top of him, and as Lestrade bucked and shook with the force of his orgasm, he grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder with one hand, gripping hard enough to bruise, and slid the other beneath Mycroft, grasping his cock and pulling upwards, sending Mycroft careening over the edge. 

For an eternity, Mycroft hovered and spun in thin air, in the void, in the land between waking and dreams; it seemed that words were on the edge of his tongue, great profound words, but no sound came out; he came to slowly, in fits and starts, and after who knew how long, found himself sweaty and shaking, lying naked in Lestrade’s arms, the man still half inside him, his chest pressed against Mycroft’s back. 

“All right?” Lestrade asked softly, his lips brushing Mycroft’s damp hair. 

 _All right_ did not seem to cover it. Mycroft felt wiped clean. He felt new. All his bones were hollow and there was light at the ends of his toes and the top of his head. 

He nodded, feeling himself rubbed raw inside and out, and breathed. 

Lestrade rubbed his upper back, saying nothing, letting Mycroft return slowly to the shell of his body. Memories came back to him: Lestrade’s voicemails, his collapse in the hall, his frantic call for help; but somehow, they floated lazily into Mycroft’s mind without causing him any distress. He had never felt so stripped bare, or so at peace. 

After awhile, Lestrade helped him into the shower, and Mycroft scrubbed himself clean, feeling purified and cool as he slipped into a pair of Lestrade’s old clothes. It was strange wearing the man’s things; he felt like Lestrade had taken away a little bit of who Mycroft was. Or maybe Mycroft had given it to him. 

Finally, the two men found themselves sitting at Lestrade’s kitchen table, looking at each other across empty takeaway cartons and a box of socks. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. 

“Maybe we should talk,” Lestrade said finally. 

Mycroft nodded, still feeling clear-headed and empty. Talking actually seemed manageable now. 

“So,” Lestrade began. He tapped a finger on the table. “Okay. So. Just to start—” 

Mycroft’s phone rang, loud and blaring in the quiet of the flat. Mycroft looked around for it, alarmed. 

“That’s Sherlock’s phone,” he said, jumping up to dig through his discarded clothes. He found the mobile just in time. “Sherlock?” 

“It’s John, actually,” said the voice on the other end, sounding very worried. “Look, er, I called Lestrade first, but he’s not answering. It’s Sherlock. He’s gone missing.” 

It was like flicking on a switch in Mycroft’s mind: everything suddenly went online again, circuits buzzing and lights flashing. “Stay there,” Mycroft said smoothly, sliding his other mobile from his trouser pocket and slipping it into Lestrade’s old jeans. An unfortunate circumstance, this outfit, but there was no time to waste. Anthea could bring him a change of clothes. “I’ll be there shortly.” 

He hung up, not bothering to listen to John’s reply. “Sherlock’s missing,” he informed Lestrade, who hurried to his feet. “I am having my assistant pick us up—” he was already pulling the mobile from his pocket and typing quickly “—and she’ll take us to Baker Street. She’ll be here in less than five minutes, so be sure you’re ready to go.” 

He sent the text message and looked up to see the inspector staring at him, a baffled smile starting at the edges of his mouth. 

“What is it?” 

Lestrade shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”


	3. Lestrade, In Awe

Sherlock was well and truly missing. He wasn’t at Scotland Yard, or St. Bart’s, or any of the other nine likely locations Mycroft checked via some extremely intimidating surveillance equipment in the black car that was taking them, at an unquestionably illegal speed, to 221B. Greg watched with bemused awe as Mycroft—who had been having a full-on nervous breakdown less than an hour before, Greg had to remind himself—barked orders into a bluteooth-headset-earpiece-thing, berating whomever was on the other end for failing to track Sherlock’s mobile and threatening all sorts of terrible fates if they didn’t manage to locate it soon. At the same time, he was changing into the suit his taciturn assistant had brought, stripping down to his pants (which were actually _Greg’s_ pants) in front of the inspector with as little hesitation as if he’d done it a hundred times before. When they pulled onto Baker Street, Mycroft was as sharp and sleek as Greg had ever seen him. Greg, on the other hand, felt thoroughly shaken up: Mycroft had transformed in a _heartbeat_ , into something fierce and cold and dangerous, and Greg had absolutely no idea where he now stood with the man. 

They had barely gotten out of the car when John came hurrying out the front door, waving something in his hand, flashing white against the darkness of the night. 

“This just came,” he panted, handing it to Mycroft. He blinked, caught off guard to see Greg at Mycroft’s side. Greg avoided his eyes hastily; now was not the time for _that_ conversation.

“Was this hand-delivered?” Mycroft asked, sniffing the object delicately. It was a letter, Greg saw, in a plain white envelope. 

John nodded. “I went outside to—to check for Sherlock. It was on the doorstep.” 

Mycroft extracted the letter carefully. Greg peered over his shoulder, reading in the glow from the windows of the café next door. 

_Dear Dr. Watson, I am holding onto your detective for the moment. Don’t worry; his accommodations are quite up to scratch._ The letter named an address on what Greg recognized as an exorbitantly expensive street in Kensington. _If you would like to come and retrieve him, I would advise bringing along Big Brother. Cordially, the Rat._

Greg could have sworn that, just for a second, Mycroft looked relieved. But then his expression seemed to harden to steel once more. “How did this occur?” he demanded. 

John pulled another letter from his pocket. “This came for Sherlock this morning,” he said. Mycroft and Greg bent their heads over it—Greg found himself carefully avoiding brushing his hair against Mycroft’s—and read the plea for help from the woman who claimed her husband might be poisoning her, and the request to meet her in the grocery store at two p.m. that day. 

“It—he went to answer it this afternoon. I’d have gone with only he didn’t bother to wake me up.” John looked briefly annoyed. “When he didn’t come back a couple hours later, I texted him, but he didn’t answer. I kept trying, for hours, but still. Nothing. That’s not exactly unusual, you know Sherlock, but I thought since—well…” He hesitated. 

“You thought since you and he have recently initiated intimate relations, he would be more likely to respond to your communications,” Mycroft finished impatiently, startling Greg with his frankness. “Bizarrely, I believe your assumption was correct. This letter, of course, proves it. And explains why we are unable to track Sherlock’s mobile.” 

“And why’s that?” Greg asked, feeling bafflingly in the dark. 

“Because ‘the Rat,’ as he so charmingly styles himself, will have destroyed his phone,” Mycroft replied, typing rapidly into his own mobile. 

“You know who he is?” 

Mycroft didn’t look up. “Indeed. He goes by the moniker ‘the Rat’ or ‘the Rat of Sumatra.’ He has connections to a major Indonesian coffee distributor—it’s how he made his fortune. He’s a nasty little man who likes to meddle in affairs best left to those more talented than he is. One of the type we keep tabs on, just in case.” Mycroft smiled humorlessly; Greg hoped fervently that Mycroft would never smile about him that way. “He may have powerful connections, but this time he’s gone too far.” 

Greg swallowed. He’d been joking, mostly, when he’d wondered to John if Mycroft would have him killed if he didn’t return the government official’s affections. Now it dawned on him, with the dizzying sensation of looking over the edge of a very tall building, that perhaps Mycroft really did have that power. And yet only an hour ago, he’d begged Greg to kiss him as if his life depended on it; begged Greg to do much more than that. It wasn’t so much that Greg had never seen Mycroft take control of a situation before; it was that, on those previous occasions, he hadn’t yet felt him naked and trembling beneath Greg’s hands. A thrill ran through Greg—of what, he wondered? Of fear? Of excitement? Of something else? 

“But what does he want with Sherlock?” John asked urgently, bringing Greg back to the present moment. 

“Mmmmm,” Mycroft replied, looking displeased. “I don’t believe, for once, that Sherlock’s obsession with the more sordid elements of society is responsible for his current predicament. No, the Rat’s quarrel is with me.” His eyes flashed briefly to Greg, then away again. Greg felt a flutter of foreboding; he knew what Mycroft was thinking: given time and some detective work on the Rat’s part, the hostage could have been Greg. 

Mycroft looked down at the woman’s letter again, and frowned. “However,” he said sharply, “Sherlock ought to have known this letter was a fake.” 

John’s eyes widened. “Oh?” 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “The paper. It’s handmade, very expensive, only available from a highly selective retailer based in Paris. It’s meant to look like ordinary printer paper; the thrill of using it comes from the private knowledge that a single sheet costs as much as a year’s worth of the ordinary stuff.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose slightly; Greg felt downright nauseated. “Nobody who uses something so frivolous and expensive would shop at Sainsburys.” Mycroft trained his gaze sharply on John, who shrank back. “Sherlock should have seen that, should have recognized the paper, made the connection. Why didn’t he?” 

For some reason, John looked utterly crushed by the question. Greg glanced at Mycroft, wishing he’d ease off a bit, but the government official didn’t blink. 

“It was my fault,” John said softly. “I distracted him. He thought there was something—something not quite…but I distracted him.” 

Something flashed in Mycroft’s eyes—something Greg could not even begin to guess at—and he slid the letter abruptly in his pocket, turning to the car. 

“We’ve lingered here far too long,” he said crisply as his assistant opened the door for him. “Get in.” Greg and John climbed hurriedly into the car, just in time to catch Mycroft’s grim smile. “We’re going to retrieve my brother.” 

The car roared into motion, and Mycroft turned his eyes briefly to Greg’s, and the cold burning strength Greg saw there—the absolute, utter _control_ —sent violent shivers up Greg’s spine. 

_Oh yes,_ he thought, _this is_ good.

 

 

“This is technically a hostage situation,” Greg said in a low voice to Mycroft as they stood in the darkness outside a very stately house, the cul-de-sac deserted after Mycroft had ordered it cleared. There were people dressed in black, with some serious firearms, stationed in the shadows around the mansion, but they weren’t police. “Shouldn’t Scotland Yard be handling this? We don’t actually know that this ‘Rat’ wants anything but money yet.” 

“Trust me, Greg, he wants far more than that,” Mycroft murmured, not taking his eyes off the front door. 

Greg blinked. This was the second time Mycroft had used his first name; the first had been on the phone, when he’d begged Greg to pick him up, sounding as if he were about to faint. 

“But,” the D.I. said, regaining his concentration, “we’re trained, we’ve got squads for this, and if something goes pear-shaped and it gets out that this was handled irregularly—” 

“It won’t,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Everyone here, I can assure you, is also very much _‘trained,’_ as you put it. More expertly than anyone at Scotland Yard, have no doubt about that.” His voice was more matter-of-fact than impatient; Greg almost thought he detected a hint of amusement running underneath it as Mycroft spoke his next words. “What exactly is it you think I do, Inspector Lestrade?” 

Greg shut up. He knew when he was out of his depth—it was why he bore the brunt of Sherlock’s attention at work, after all—and he couldn’t possibly pretend that he wasn’t fascinated by Mycroft’s handling of the situation. It added whole new dimensions to the man, and to the things that had happened in his office and in Greg’s flat. The inspector felt his fears about having pushed Mycroft too far slowly dissolving away. Whatever else he might be, Mycroft was not a man who allowed others to make him do anything he didn’t want to. 

Greg felt John shift nervously beside him. He’d refused to stay in the car, of course, and was watching the house with as much concentration as Mycroft. Greg didn’t think he’d moved in the fifteen minutes they’d been there, waiting for some sign as to who and what was inside—Mycroft had stopped the doctor from barreling in, as he’d clearly been inclined to do, saying (quite wisely, in Greg’s opinion) that until they knew if there were explosives or snipers or any other hidden traps in the mansion, they were staying out. John had agreed more easily than Greg had expected; he hadn’t quite lost the crushed, defeated look that had appeared on his face when he confessed that Sherlock’s oversight had been his fault. Greg wanted to comfort him, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. 

“Now,” Mycroft said suddenly, and the next second, everything was moving: the hidden figures emerged, pointing guns at the front entrance of the house as the ornate wooden doors opened and a man emerged, immediately raising his hands in the air. 

“The house is surrounded,” Mycroft called out calmly, locking eyes with the man, who wore a crisp navy suit and dark glasses that glinted in the glow of the porch light. “You would be wise to inform your boss that is in his best interests to let Sherlock go, and to come quietly.” 

“Why don’t you speak to him yourself?” the man asked, face and voice mild. He waved his right hand, still raised in the air, and Greg saw in the dim light that he held a thin black mobile phone. 

Mycroft paused. Then he murmured something into his headset, and one of the black-dressed figures stepped towards the man at the door, gun still cocked and ready, and held out a hand. The man slipped him the mobile and retreated backwards; Mycroft gave the signal to allow him to reenter the house. 

“Listen, Mycroft,” Greg whispered, unable to stop himself, “shouldn’t there be somebody else to talk to him? I know I’m not an expert in hostage situations, but I did do basic training, and you’re supposed to have one person in command of the scene and another who talks to the hostage-taker, because that way both of them can keep a clear head…” 

He faltered. Mycroft had a look in his eye that warned Greg not to go any further. 

“Nobody else is making decisions where my brother is concerned,” he said quietly, in a tone that brooked no argument. Greg nodded silently. 

Mycroft then raised the mobile calmly to his ear. 

“You are in a great deal of trouble,” he said quietly into the phone. “It would be very wise of you to give up Sherlock, and to turn yourself over to me, before you find yourself in a most unpleasant situation.” 

It was Mycroft’s gift for understatement, Greg thought as Mycroft listened silently to whomever was on the other end, that made him truly terrifying. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied to the man on the phone, lip curling slightly. “And do you expect me simply to take your word for it that Sherlock is with you?” 

There was a long pause and then Mycroft’s eyes closed, as an expression of weariness settled across his face. “Sherlock—” He sighed, listening; Greg sensed John’s urgent energy as they both watched Mycroft speak to his brother. 

“ _Sherlock_. Yes. Yes, I agree that this is unacceptable, which is why I am working very hard to—” Mycroft pursed his lips. “How many gunmen?” The skin around his eyes tightened. John looked angry and terrified. “Mmm. Any sign of explosives? Chemicals?” Greg held his breath. “Good. If you give the phone back to the _Rat_ now, I will attempt—” Mycroft’s eyes widened and he looked, inexplicably, at Greg. “We’ll discuss it later, Sherlock. Or, hopefully, never,” he added under his breath. 

Greg swore softly. Surely, _surely_ Sherlock couldn’t have deduced _over the phone_ what had happened between him and Mycroft that evening. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said impatiently, “give the phone back to—ah. Yes. Sherlock has informed me of the situation.” He took a breath. “What is it that you want?” 

Greg’s heart sank. If Mycroft was making concessions, the situation must be bad. John looked terrified and miserable and still guilty as hell. Greg clapped a hand awkwardly to his back. 

“We can arrange for you and the house to remain safe and unharmed, yes.” Mycroft waited, then chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, no, you know perfectly well I can’t give you those blueprints. That’s out of the question.” He paused. “The code might be a possibility, yes, but let me give you a tip: we will change it the moment it is in your hands.” Mycroft infused his voice with a precise mixture of condescension and sympathy. “I think you will find the black market in state secrets to be a much more difficult place to navigate than your crooked business dealings. Now, if you would like me to promise that the government will look the other way when tax season comes around…” He listened again, his expression growing impatient. “Those papers are well beyond both my ability to give and what your bargaining chip is worth. It isn’t as though you have the Queen in there. Sherlock is an irritating man with a talent for puzzle-solving, who happens to share some of my genetic makeup. That entitles you to only a limited amount of my attention—” 

He stopped speaking abruptly. John was bristling with fury, looking about ready to snatch the phone from Mycroft; Greg put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. 

“Trust him,” he whispered. “Seriously.” 

John relaxed a fraction, but remained wary. Mycroft was still listening to the voice on the other end. His face was growing paler and paler; for the first time, Greg thought he might be feeling out of his depth. He felt anxiety pulse through him. 

“No,” Mycroft said abruptly. “Don’t— _do not do that_. I will give you the papers.” He took a breath. “Give my assistant fifteen minutes to fetch them from my office. When she returns, we’ll make the exchange.” 

He hung up the phone. John sagged with relief as Mycroft spoke to his assistant through the open car window. She drove away and Mycroft stepped back, face impassive. 

Greg studied him, feeling confused and a little disappointed. Was that really it? Mycroft had no more tricks up his sleeve? It wasn’t that Greg wanted them all to run in, guns blazing, but he’d thought Mycroft would manage some slick sleight of hand, some last-minute genius maneuver. Maybe Sherlock really was enough of a weak spot for him that he’d been unable to take the necessary risks. 

Mycroft met Greg’s eyes and they both turned away quickly. All three of them stood in silence, surrounded by darkness, waiting for the car to return, and stared at the house in which Sherlock Holmes was being held hostage.

 

 

Mycroft’s assistant returned with the papers—whatever they were—just as Greg’s toes were beginning to go numb with cold. As soon as Mycroft had them in hand, the thin black mobile rang. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said after listening for a moment. “Yes. They’re all here. Come out quietly, with Sherlock in front, and I will call off my people and give you the papers, and we can all walk away…” His voice trailed off. For a second, Greg saw his eyes go wide with shock. 

Greg’s stomach plummeted. 

“That’s not happening. Absolutely not. That was not part of the deal—no, I will not change my mind in the next five minutes, so there’s no point even—” He stopped speaking. The Rat, clearly, had hung up on him. 

“What is it?” John asked immediately. “What’s happened? What else does he want?” 

Mycroft’s voice was quiet. “You.” 

Greg stared at him, shocked; John looked as confused as he did. 

“Me?” 

Mycroft hesitated. “He wants you to go in and deliver the papers. And to fetch Sherlock.” 

John blinked. “And he’ll, what? Shoot Sherlock if I’m not in there in the next five minutes?” 

After a moment, Mycroft nodded. 

“Then I’m going in,” John said, and, grabbing the papers from Mycroft, took off toward the door. 

The black-clad gunmen pointed their weapons at John, but Mycroft waved them impatiently away. “John, this is a trap!” he called out. 

“I know it is,” John responded without stopping. He strode up the porch steps, seized the doorknob, and as Greg and Mycroft watched helplessly, disappeared inside.


	4. John, and Explosions

It all happened very quickly. 

John barreled through the front door of the house, not caring about the risk, determined to save Sherlock no matter the cost to himself, because he’d gotten the detective into this mess, he’d distracted him while he was making deductions, which was just about the worst thing you could do to Sherlock Holmes and, it turned out, the most dangerous thing as well, and John wasn’t about to let his stupid blindness destroy the one man about whom John felt, well, to be honest, he felt— 

His reflexes reacted faster than his mind. Before he knew what was happening, he was hurtling to the side, out of the grip of a man who’d suddenly lunged for him from the shadows. He registered the presence of another man behind him, and the guns they each held, as he scrambled to his feet and kicked the first man in the kneecaps. He wrested his gun away and knocked him out with a single blow to the head, then disarmed his other attacker after a swift contest of speed and muscle, and pointed the gun at the man’s head. 

“That was rather impressive,” a nasal voice said from across the room, and John looked up to see a thin rodentlike man seated in an armchair beneath a massive unlit chandelier. He was surrounded by four more armed guards, one of whom was pointing a gun at—oh. John’s body went cold. The guard was pointing a gun at Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock looked at John, mouth gagged, a purple bruise spreading across his right temple. John felt physically ill. _This was all his fault._  

“You can see, however, that I have the upper hand,” the man continued, tone smooth and unconcerned—or not _quite_ unconcerned. He was doing an impression of total control, but John had just seen the real thing, and the Rat of Sumatra couldn’t hold a candle to Mycroft. 

Still, he wasn’t wrong. 

“Put down that gun,” the Rat said, “or I’ll have them shoot your friend.” 

John gave up the weapon. Immediately, the man he’d disarmed was on his feet, the gun cold against John’s temple. 

“That’s better,” said the Rat, not quite managing to hide his relief. He smoothed invisible creases from his expensive suit. “Now. I’ll have those papers.” 

He nodded to one of his guards, who stepped forward to retrieve the documents John had dropped to the floor in the struggle. The Rat perused them, and a satisfied smile spread across his face. 

“Very good,” he said smugly. “Thank you for delivering them safely, Dr. Watson.” 

“What do you want?” John asked, heart pounding. He was going to get Sherlock out of this somehow. “Mycroft won’t give you anything else.” 

“No, no, I’m done with the elder Mr. Holmes for the moment,” the Rat replied. He smiled, revealing small sharp teeth. “Now I want something from the younger one.” He nodded to the guard, who pulled the gag from Sherlock’s mouth. John noted contemptuously that the Rat didn’t dare get close to Sherlock himself. “I want information.” 

John half-expected Sherlock to start berating the man as soon as his mouth was free, with his usual scathing tone and utter disregard for danger, but instead, his grey eyes flicked to John, and the gun at John’s temple, and kept silent. 

That scared John more than anything that had happened all day. 

“There is a man,” the Rat said, and John didn’t miss the convulsive bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard—his brain worked rapidly, trying to figure out how to use the Rat’s nervousness against him—“a man who, as I understand, is a very helpful individual to know when one is interested in…delving deeper, shall we say, into the darker recesses of society. A man who, if I am the Rat, could well be termed the Spider.” He examined his manicured fingernails. “I have attempted to make contact with him, to offer him a partnership in certain of my current dealings, but he has proved…elusive. I understand that you might have some idea of his whereabouts.” 

John knew very well who the Rat was talking about. So did Sherlock, who finally broke his silence with a contemptuous laugh. 

“He does not have ‘partners,’” Sherlock said, the sneer evident in his voice. “Especially not men like you. If he wanted you to find him, you would have by now. Take my advice, Mr. Feltingham—oh, yes, I know who you are—stay away from that man. He is a genius with a very low tolerance for stupidity and a very quick temper. It is a dangerous combination.” 

John couldn’t help but wince at the words “low tolerance for stupidity”; his life seemed full of men like that, Sherlock not least. And god, had John been stupid today. 

“Are you threatening me?” the Rat demanded, a vein pulsing in his broad forehead. 

“Just a friendly warning,” Sherlock answered unconcernedly, tossing out a cold smile.

“Oh, indeed,” the Rat said, clenching his fists. “It seems like both of the Holmes brothers believe me to be in over my head tonight. Incapable. Incompetent. Well, you’ll be sorry, because soon I’ll be bigger than you both. And with or without your help, I will find James Mor—” 

Everything exploded.

 

 

John came to in an ambulance. He shouted a lot—mostly Sherlock’s name—ignoring the shooting pain in his wrist and the blood running down his cheek; the paramedics kept telling him not to talk, something about making the wound worse, but John didn’t care, not when Sherlock’s fate was unknown and possibly terrible and certainly John’s fault. He was too busy shouting to notice the prick in his arm, and he wasn’t even aware that he’d fallen asleep until much later, when he woke up again. 

He was lying in a hospital bed, blinking blearily at the white ceiling, confused as to why his wrist was in a splint and why his left cheek was tingling. And where was Sherlock? 

The note. The kidnapping. The house. The _explosion—_

“Whoa, whoa, there,” somebody said as John sat up abruptly, head spinning. The doctor. “Take it easy.” 

“Sherlock,” John said. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

“Your friend’s fine,” the doctor replied. She sounded half-amused, half-exasperated. “Better than the nurses who were taking care of him, let me tell you. He’s quite a force of nature, isn’t he?” 

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking deep gulps of air. The room was still circling queasily. 

“I want to see him.” 

The doctor sighed. “I wish you’d stay in bed a little longer.” 

“I’m fine,” John said, getting to his feet. “Where are my clothes? Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s in room 345, just down the hall. Your clothes are on that chair. I can’t stop you from leaving, as you’re in fit condition to go, more or less, but do take care—you’ve got a sprained wrist and you’ve just had six stitches in your cheek. Not to mention the aftereffects of the sedative they gave you on the way here.” 

John barely heard her as he pulled on his trousers, then grabbed his jumper (the one Sherlock had bought him, the perfect one, now spattered, horribly, with blood) and hurried out of the room. 

“Sherlock,” he said, bursting into 345. “Sherlock, are you—” 

He felt suddenly faint. Sherlock was lying in the bed, eyes closed, pale as death. 

“Hey, hey, John. _John_.” He felt a strong hand close around his uninjured arm. Greg Lestrade led him over to a chair and sat him down. “Steady on. It’s okay. He’s just…asleep.” 

For some reason, that was making him grin. Mycroft was grinning, too, at Sherlock’s bedside—Mycroft grinning was absolutely terrifying—and John shook his head, feeling like he was swimming in mud. 

“They, er, put him out. Just a bit,” Lestrade said, still smirking. “He was causing quite a commotion. Said he wouldn’t let them patch him up till he’d seen you. But they couldn’t really have him walking about the hospital with blood all down his front, could they?—Oh. Hey, John, it’s okay. It was a shallow wound. A bit of shrapnel cut his shoulder. Bled a little, that’s all. Just like your face.” John took in a deep gasping breath, feeling the dizziness recede. “You both got damn lucky, I’d say.” 

“Not lucky,” Mycroft demurred. “Moriarty meant that bomb as a warning to the Rat. A message for him to stop meddling in affairs too deep for him. He never intended to seriously injure anyone. If he had,” Mycroft said darkly, “we would not all be here right now.” 

“But how…” John’s head was spinning again. 

“One of the Rat’s guards was Moriarty’s man.” Mycroft pursed his lips grimly. “I can assure you, he is now wishing very much that the explosion had been fatal.” 

John realized that didn’t really care about any of that. He pulled himself to his feet again, shaking off Greg’s steadying hand, and crossed the room to Sherlock’s bedside. 

The detective was still asleep, looking deceptively angelic as he lay below crisp white sheets, breathing deeply, a few tiny cuts marring the pale smoothness of his face and hands. John reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair, dusty from the explosion, off Sherlock’s forehead. A lump rose in his throat. 

“I think,” Greg said meaningfully, “we’ll be heading out now. Mycroft?” 

The government official made a noise of displeasure. “I don’t think—” 

“There are certain things,” Greg continued patiently, “that I would prefer not to talk about with Sherlock, here, in this hospital, at three in the morning. If you catch my drift.”

 “Ah.” Mycroft sounded faintly embarrassed. “Yes. On second thought, perhaps you’re right. Dr. Watson, I shall inform the hospital staff that you are to be allowed to stay with him as long as you wish.” 

John looked up, startled by this unprecedented act of kindness from the elder Holmes sibling. “Er. Thank you.” 

Mycroft nodded, looking for a moment as if he wanted to say something else. Then he turned away, and he and Greg left John alone with Sherlock. 

Gently, John pulled the sheet back. Sherlock was wearing scrubs bottoms but no top; his shoulder sported a long red gash, closed up with a row of neat stitches. A bruise was rising on his side, newer by a few hours than the one that mottled his forehead. It could have been much worse, but that thought didn’t console John. It frightened him, how much worse it could have been. 

He ran his fingers lightly down Sherlock’s bare chest, feeling his slow, steady breathing. He wondered, with the feeling of facing down an impending disaster, if this was the last time he was going to be allowed to touch the detective this way. Sherlock had always spoken of the dangers of sentiment; he had been proven correct tonight, beyond all doubt. If John hadn’t distracted him when he was reading the fake letter, none of this would have happened. He’d kissed Sherlock’s brilliant deductions right out of his head, and he very much doubted that Sherlock would ever forgive him for that. 

Beneath his fingers, Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest. John’s head jerked up, and he stared into Sherlock’s opening eyes. 

For a long moment, the two men looked at each other, John full of fear, heart in his mouth, waiting for Sherlock to say something scathing, to tell John to take his hands off him, to push him away. But what Sherlock did was far worse. 

He turned his head away and shut his eyes. 

John stumbled backwards. He felt as if Sherlock had hit him. Head spinning again, he groped behind him for the door, and nearly fell over himself in an effort to exit the room. 

He leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to clear his vision. As he blinked away white sparks, he looked around at the fluorescent-lit corridor, realizing that he knew it well. _What the hell are we doing at St. Barts?_ he wondered hazily. The hospital didn’t even have an A &E. He supposed some combination of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had pulled strings to get them taken care of on familiar ground. Well, John thought with the distance that came from knowing that nothing mattered very much anymore, he couldn’t go back into Sherlock’s room, not when the detective was refusing to so much as look at him, and he didn’t want to go home to an empty Baker Street; and since he knew his way around here he might as well go down to the hospital cafeteria. Relive his student days with a middle-of-the-night cup of coffee from the vending machine. 

He thought that, probably, from now on, he was going to spend a lot of time revisiting his past.


	5. Greg, Figuring it Out

Greg and Mycroft stood outside St. Barts, in the harsh semidarkness peculiar to London at three a.m., and looked at each other. 

“Well,” said Greg finally. 

Mycroft said nothing. 

Greg exhaled. He badly wanted a cigarette. 

“Look…” He cast about for something, anything, to say. “What do you normally do after something like this?” 

“Something like…?” Mycroft’s tone was inscrutable. 

“I dunno. A crisis or a confrontation or anything that you need to…wind down from.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Everybody I know on the force has something they do after they close a hard case. Especially if it didn’t go like they expected.” He ventured a crooked smile. “I go to the pub and get pissed, myself. But I bet you don’t.” 

Mycroft’s face had become a smooth mask. He turned away from Greg, staring down the darkened street. “No.” 

“Well?” Greg pressed. He was still shaken up by the events of the day, and he didn’t know which Mycroft he was talking to right now—the tender, terrified Mycroft he’d kissed in his flat or the Mycroft who’d stared down a hostage situation with eyes of steel. He felt that if he could get the man to answer this one ordinary question, he could get a little closer to seeing Mycroft as a normal human being. 

But Mycroft remained silent. Greg got the feeling he’d said something wrong. 

“Okay.” Greg sighed, a long, tired puff of air. “Forget it. None of my business, anyway.” 

“I watch you.” 

Mycroft’s voice was low but clear. Greg turned to him; he met Greg’s gaze levelly, though there was apprehension in his eyes. 

“I watch you,” Mycroft repeated. “On CCTV.” 

Greg felt his jaw go slack. “Oh,” he said dumbly. He exhaled. “Hah. Okay. Right.” He paused. “Right, yeah, no, I—I knew that. I did.” He had, sort of; he’d known, at least, that Mycroft had been watching him on CCTV. Or having someone watch him. That was what had started this whole thing, after all: a drunken message via the camera outside a pub. 

Greg squared his shoulders. He could deal with this. He could. “For how long?” he asked bluntly. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“For how long. Have you been…watching me.” 

Mycroft’s face was still impassive, but the slight pause before he spoke betrayed his hesitation. “Since we first met in person.” 

Greg blinked. Jesus. “That’s…what, six years?” Mycroft nodded. “Okay. Okay. Just—just CCTV, or, or, I don’t know, are there hidden cameras—Christ, Mycroft, there aren’t hidden cameras in my _flat_ , are there?” 

“There are no cameras in your flat.” Mycroft spoke quietly. He looked down at his shoes, then up at Greg again. “CCTV. The cameras at Scotland Yard. And sometimes the private security systems of…various pubs and restaurants. But that is all, I promise you.” 

Greg ran a hand through his hair. He very definitely did not know what he was feeling right now, other than like he’d been hit by a sizable truck. “The private security systems of…is that even _legal?_ No, no, don’t tell me. Either way, I don’t want to know.” He swallowed, mouth dry. “And how often do you do this?” 

“Approximately three times a week,” Mycroft answered readily, “for an average of twelve point three minutes at a time.” 

What the _hell?_ “Why that?” 

Mycroft looked confused. “What do you mean?” 

“Why—why twelve point three minutes. And how do you _know_ that?” 

Mycroft fidgeted with the bottom of his jacket. “The length of time I allow myself to watch you is directly proportional to the level of success and efficiency with which I handled the preceding crisis, and the magnitude of the crisis itself.” 

Greg couldn’t help it. He laughed aloud. “You’re _joking._ ” 

Mycroft stared. “No…” 

Greg found he couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the exhaustion setting in, the adrenaline crash, or maybe he just found the situation so absurd as to be hilarious. “So,” he gasped out between laughs, “you have, what? A point system or something? An equation?” 

Mycroft nodded. 

“So,” Greg wheezed, “it’s, what, four minutes for a minor diplomatic crisis, ten for averting a war, twenty for successfully assassinating some South American dictator with a poison pen or something?” 

Mycroft’s eye twitched. “More or less,” he answered stiffly. “Though I fail to see what is amusing about it.” 

“It’s bloody _mad_ , that’s what,” Greg said, his laughter dying down. “You know that, right, Mycroft?” 

After a moment, Mycroft nodded. 

“Well, that’s something,” Greg mused. He surveyed Mycroft, pale under the streetlamp and ever so slightly rumpled from the events of the evening. One at least thing was certain: Greg had never met anyone remotely like him before. 

“So,” he said. “How much time have you earned for yourself tonight? Quite a bit, I’d imagine. That was pretty damn impressive earlier.” 

For a moment, Mycroft looked startled. Then he shook his head, his expression dark. “No,” he said, voice clipped. “It was an utter disaster. I allowed John to enter the house, I did not detect the explosive device hidden in the attic, and I did not prevent an explosion which might have ended in numerous fatalities. Tonight was not impressive, Inspector, not at all.” 

“You’re awfully hard on yourself,” Greg said, frowning. “Sherlock and John are all right. Feltingham is in custody, with plenty of evidence against him. And the documents were retrieved.” 

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. “The documents were fake. They would have done him no good anyway.” 

“Fake—?” Greg gaped. “But how could they—your assistant had them ready in fifteen minutes, and they must have been _good_ fakes if you intended to trick him into letting Sherlock go—” 

“They were indeed. I have numerous such decoys prepared in case of just such an incident. There are a lot of men and women who want things from me, Inspector, and who will try anything to get them. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared.” 

So _that_ was it—that was why Mycroft had given in so quickly. Greg couldn’t help but feel a bit floored by the genius of it. “Jesus, Mycroft, that’s brilliant. Surely that’s got to count for something,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was totally, utterly insane for him to argue _in favor_ of Mycroft being allowed to watch him on CCTV that night. 

Mycroft shook his head. “No. But it’s irrelevant. I haven’t…” He hesitated. “I haven’t watched you at all since…” 

“Since eight days ago,” Greg said softly, understanding. 

Mycroft nodded. 

Greg was touched. And he knew, he _knew_ that was mad, being touched that somebody who’d essentially been stalking him for six years had, well, taken a break from stalking him. But Mycroft was standing before him, looking suddenly so vulnerable that it hurt, and he was breathtakingly beautiful in the half-darkness, and he was still wearing Greg’s _pants_ , and sod it all to hell, Greg didn’t give a flying fuck if it was crazy anymore. 

“Come have a drink.” 

Mycroft stared. “What?” 

“A drink. If you’re not going to go stalk me on CCTV tonight, you haven’t got anything to do to wind down. So come and have a drink with me.” 

“But…” 

“Look,” Greg said firmly, “I know. I’m supposed to be absolutely bloody terrified right now. I’m supposed to call you a freak, and tell you I never want to see you again, and cut all ties with your family and blah blah blah. But fuck it, Mycroft, just _fuck it_ , because I don’t care.” 

He took a breath of icy night air, feeling giddy. Mycroft said nothing, just stared at him, wide-eyed, as if Greg had sprouted wings. 

“Here’s the thing,” Greg continued. “Everything about what’s been going on between us looks totally fucked up. Just completely wrong. You’ve been stalking me, for one thing. Seriously stalking. For another, that is _not_ how you’re supposed to do sex. Bloody hell, I tied you to a _chair_ when I didn’t even know you and it was your _first time._ And then you came to me having a _nervous breakdown_ because of it, and what did we do but have sex _again_. And let’s not pretend there isn’t something seriously complicated going on there, with the sex—some serious power dynamics, there, that you’re _really_ supposed to talk about first—and then today, Jesus, you’re the exact opposite of how you are in bed, you’re bloody terrifying, you look like you’re capable of bending the entire _world_ over your knee. And I’m pretty sure you don’t just want me because of my rugged good looks. I’m pretty sure you _need_ something from me, Mycroft, something complicated and difficult and quite possibly dangerous.” 

Greg stopped. Mycroft looked as pale as a ghost, and as though he were either about to collapse or hit Greg in the face. 

“And,” Greg continued, calmer now, keeping his eyes trained on Mycroft’s, “I’m pretty sure I want to give it to you.” 

Mycroft’s face grew blank with shock. 

“Because the thing is,” Greg said, feeling now as though his gaze was all that was keeping Mycroft from falling in a heap on the sidewalk, “I think I need something from you too. And what that means to me is, no matter how fucked-up this whole thing _looks_ , it isn’t really fucked up at all.” He shook his head. “And I know fucked-up. My marriage was fucked-up. My entire relationship with Jess, from start to finish, was a complete sham. It looked so good on the outside: we met at a dinner party, we dated for two years before getting engaged, we bought a flat and then a nicer flat and the only thing couples are supposed to do that we didn’t, thank god, was have kids. But no matter how much we looked like the perfect couple to everyone else, we were doomed from the start. She wasn’t faithful to me, ever, not even when we were engaged, and I knew it, and I married her anyway. And she’d cheat, and then she’d apologize, and cry, and say I was the one she really loved, and I would take her back, every time, and we’d go on looking like the perfect couple, and that, _that_ , was fucked-up.” Greg breathed. “So. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care about all the warning signs and the stuff we’ve done wrong and how mad it is to even think about going near you again. Because I like you, Mycroft, and I think I might just need you, and I think you might just need me too.” 

Still Mycroft was silent, inscrutable. Greg smiled at him, feeling reckless and daring and happy and _free._  

“So,” he said, “fancy a drink?” 

Mycroft was silent for a very long moment. 

“I don’t go to pubs,” he said finally. But he didn’t say it like it meant “no.” 

“Okay,” Greg laughed. 

“There’s a club—” 

“Ohhhh, no,” Greg interrupted. “Sherlock’s told me about your club. You’re not allowed to _speak_ at your club.” 

Mycroft’s brow creased faintly. “There are certain rooms in which one may speak—” 

“No,” Greg said, shaking his head, grinning. “Not a chance.” 

Mycroft slid his hands into his pockets, looking hesitantly at Greg. He didn’t look as though he were about to have a nervous breakdown—far from it—but he didn’t look like the unassailable man issuing orders outside the Rat’s mansion either. “So what do you suggest, Inspector?” Mycroft asked, a shadow of uncertainty—but only a shadow—in his voice. 

“It’s Greg,” Greg said firmly. “I mean it this time.” He thought for a moment. “Ah, fuck it,” he said conversationally. “In for a penny, and all that.” He looked at Mycroft. “Come on. I’m taking you back to mine.”

Mycroft paused, then nodded. “I accept. Greg.” He took a step toward the inspector, and then stopped. “However,” he said, voice suddenly dry, “will you allow me to call for a car, at least? It’s absolutely bloody _freezing_ out here.” 

Greg gave a yelp of laughter, then nodded, grinning. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be good.” 

And as Mycroft dialed his phone, Greg stepped closer, and slid his hand around Mycroft’s waist, pulling them together against the cold.


	6. John, with Molly

John walked slowly, his footsteps ringing dully through the empty corridors of St. Barts. He made his way down the stairs, feeling as though he were descending into a sort of purgatory of concrete and artificial lighting, and nearly ran into someone as he opened the door into the basement hallway. 

“John?” 

It was Molly Hooper, staring at him with wide startled eyes. John blinked, hoping she would disappear. 

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night. What—what’s happened to your face?” 

“Bit of an accident,” he muttered. 

“Is Sherlock here?” she asked immediately. “Is he okay?” 

“He’s fine. He’s…sleeping.” 

Molly looked at John, hard. He found himself trying to look anywhere but at her. He had a sudden paranoid conviction that if he met her eyes, she’d know, just _know_ , about him and Sherlock. And that last thing he needed right now, the absolute last thing, was a heartbroken Molly Hooper on his hands. 

“There’s something else,” she said. “You’re worried about something.” 

Of course Molly would start being perceptive now, of all times. John tried to brush her concern away with a shake of the head, but he didn’t have a whole lot of control over whatever his face was doing at the moment, and Molly obviously wasn’t convinced. 

“No, there is. It’s okay, you can tell me if you want. I’m not really doing much right now—I couldn’t sleep, so I came here to work. I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want—obviously, you know that, I just mean—well, it helps, sometimes, to talk about things. When you’re upset. I talk to my cat a lot. I mean, not in a mad sort of way,” she added hurriedly. “I just, er, I mean—” 

“Okay,” John said, to put both of them out of this misery. “Okay. Look. Here’s the thing. Sherlock…” He faltered. What was he going to tell her? That he and Sherlock were a couple? He wasn’t at all sure that was true anymore. “Sherlock and I…er…we…” 

The silence hung in the air. Then Molly gave a slight gasp. 

“Oh.” She looked, briefly, like a goldfish. “Oh. I see.” 

“Well,” John rushed to clarify, hoping that somehow it might help, “actually, I don’t know if we—well if—if after tonight…” He felt his throat closing up. Suddenly, he was fighting back tears. 

Molly looked at him, eyes wide. 

She said, very gently, “Maybe you should tell me about it.”

 

John had given some thought to how people would react when they learned about his and Sherlock’s new relationship, and he’d assumed that when Molly found out, she’d be an instant mess: tears, sobs, garbled protests that she was fine and a quick exit from the room to cry in a closet. He certainly hadn’t expected her to end up sitting with him in the cafeteria of St. Barts in the middle of the night, fetching him coffee and giving him relationship advice. 

But that seemed to be what was happening. 

“I think,” she said, after John wrapped up a long monologue about Sherlock and the kidnapping and the aftermath that he was starting to suspect had not been very coherent, “you might be a little bit in shock.” She peered at him clinically. “Yeah. Your eyes are dilated, see, and you’re shaking. Just a bit.” 

John looked down at his hands. They were indeed trembling slightly. But he didn’t understand what this had to do with anything. 

“It’s just,” she clarified hurriedly, “when you’re in shock, you’re not always, well, very rational.” 

Oh. “Ha,” John said. “No. No, this isn’t shock. This is…” He shook his head. “I feel like this all the time. About Sherlock. Because he’s always—well. He’s—he’s just—he’s…” 

“Extraordinary,” Molly said softly. She nodded, eyes flickering down to the table, then back up again. “I know.” 

“Yes,” John said, feeling a rush of gratitude. “And I’m—not.” 

Molly looked at him carefully, biting her lip. “Okay. So. You think that somehow what happened tonight is your fault.” 

John nodded vehemently. “It _is_ my fault. He should have figured out that the letter was a fake. I distracted him. He was being brilliant, and I—I made him less brilliant.” He dug his nails into his palms, angry, guilty, trying to hold it together. “It’s like he’s—like he’s a lightbulb. And I’m a…a…” He struggled. “A lampshade,” he finished lamely. 

“No!” Molly shook her head energetically, ponytail bobbing behind her. “Don’t be an idiot. Sorry. I mean. No, he’s—if Sherlock’s a lightbulb, you’re, like, a conductor. Of…of light. Or…electricity.” 

She looked as if she had confused herself. “It’s okay, Molly,” John said heavily. “Forget it.” 

“Really. I mean it,” she persisted. “Okay. Look. Sherlock is extraordinary. And brilliant. And maybe also totally mad.” She gave a quivery smile. “And that makes him, well, forget things. Ordinary things, like politeness and…eating.” She took a breath, looking determined; John got the sense that this was something she’d worked out for herself a long time ago. “What he needs is somebody to remind of him the ordinary things. He doesn’t need someone like him—god, can you imagine, it would be terrifying!” She laughed. “Two of him running around. No. He needs somebody who’s just…ordinary.” 

John swallowed. It was so tempting to believe she was right. But he thought of the way Sherlock had closed his eyes, had turned his head so he didn’t have to look at John. “I don’t know, Molly.” 

“No, listen, I—I know what I must look like. Around Sherlock.” She swallowed, staring down at her hands. “He says those horrible things to me, and I just—keep following him around, like a lost dog or something.” 

“No, no,” John protested weakly. 

“It’s okay. I know,” she said, sounding nervous but stubborn. “It’s just—if it were anybody else…but Sherlock’s not like most people. He doesn’t understand he’s supposed to care about things like…well. But. He gets lonely. I know he does.” She spoke with quiet certainty. “And I know he know he needs somebody. Somebody ordinary. And, well, _I’m_ ordinary, and I thought maybe I could—” 

She stopped speaking. “But I can’t,” she said after a long pause. “And you can.” 

John looked at her, seeing for the first time the depth of pain in her eyes. She was pushing through it right now, pushing through it for him, and in the fluorescent rawness of the cafeteria and the underwater silence of three a.m., what she was doing appeared to John in the nature of a sacrifice, hard fought and freely given. It would be sacrilege to ignore it, to brush it aside like something cheap and worthless. 

“Thank you, Molly,” he said, reaching forward to squeeze her hand. 

She nodded, looking down—for the first time, John thought, fighting back tears. 

“I’m happy for you,” she whispered, and it only made it more heartbreaking that John knew how much she meant it.

 

 

He raced back upstairs. He didn’t know what he was going to say, or do, but it was suddenly incredibly important that he get back to room 345 before Sherlock left, because somehow Molly had given him strength and determination that he didn’t even know she had, or he had, and god damn it, whatever else had happened, he loved the man, and he knew he always would. And he was going to _fight_ for him.


	7. Sherlock, Fighting

Sherlock was buttoning his coat when John burst into the room. 

“Sherlock,” he said. Sherlock turned away, and John stopped talking. 

“How are you feeling?” John said finally, cautiously. 

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, still not meeting John’s eyes. 

“That’s…good.” 

The silence was fraught with tension, and Sherlock refused to break it. He didn’t see the point in talking. And he wouldn’t look at John because he knew what he’d see in his face: pity or derision. Sherlock wasn’t sure which would be worse, John feeling sorry for him because he was no longer brilliant, or John looking down on him. There was a third option, actually, which was how John had looked when Sherlock had woken up earlier. John had looked afraid—like Sherlock was made of glass. Like he could break at any moment. 

Just because Sherlock had made a mistake didn’t mean he was _fragile._

“Are you going back to Baker Street now?” John asked tentatively. 

Sherlock nodded, wrapping his scarf around his neck. 

“May I—do you mind if I come with?” 

Sherlock shook his head. He did mind, of course. He suspected that John would want to _talk_ about things, would want to state the reasons he no longer wanted to be with Sherlock. He would explain that Sherlock wasn’t who John thought he’d been, wasn’t an incredible genius after all, but just an ordinary man who couldn’t distinguish between sixty-five different types of white paper and who got himself kidnapped and put John in danger as a result. Sherlock didn’t want to hear John say any of this. If they weren’t going to be together, Sherlock thought, it was best that they part now and forget any of it ever happened. 

But of course John followed Sherlock down the corridor, nearly running to keep up, and out into the cold night, and into the cab, where he kept clearing his throat and trying to make eye contact with the detective. Sherlock stared fixedly out the window, trying to ignore how painful it was simply to be in the doctor’s proximity. 

When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock swept up the stairs and into the sitting room, hoping to make it to his bedroom before John could corner him. But the doctor was quick when he wanted to be, and as Sherlock made for the door of his room, John grabbed him by the wrist. 

His touch was electric. Sherlock jerked back as if he’d been shocked. He stared at John, who stared back, eyes wide—fear again. 

“Sherlock,” he said, squaring his shoulders unconsciously. “We need to talk about this.” 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Yes, we do,” John continued doggedly. “I want to know exactly what is happening in that head of yours right now.” 

That was just too much. John wanted to know what it looked like in Sherlock’s brain when he was losing everything he hadn’t even realized he desperately wanted until eight—nine—days ago? Well, it felt like a star going nova; it felt like hurtling over a waterfall; it felt like weeks upon weeks without a case, when his body screamed for the relief of the needle. It felt like failure. 

“I’m rejoicing in the death of sentiment,” he said cuttingly. 

John blinked. Sherlock left him there, standing in the middle of the sitting room, and strode into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Being alone didn’t help, though, because now he was surrounded by the “John” pages and, worse, the blank spaces of wall waiting for more “John” pages to go up. They never would, now. Suddenly furious, Sherlock began to rip them down. They came off in small chunks and long strips, pushpins flying and tape peeling back. The sound was terrible yet satisfying, and so loud he didn’t notice at first that his door had opened. 

“Sherlock, we need to—” John stopped, eyes widening. “Sherlock, what is—what are you doing?” 

Sherlock tore down a whole row at once, viciously. He’d intended to show John these pages under very different circumstances. It was supposed to be an extraordinary moment. John was supposed to realize, once and for all, that Sherlock loved him as no one else could, that it would make sense for him to stay with Sherlock forever. He was meant to be awed by Sherlock’s brilliance and devotion. But it was too late for that. 

John bent down and picked up a pile of ripped pages. He sifted through them, looking puzzled at first. Then he blinked. He inspected a particular sheet of paper, then blinked again, several times. 

“Is this _me_?” he asked, holding out a drawing of the lower half of his body, naked, with arrows pointing to various places; it was a diagram of something Sherlock had planned to try in bed, an act he’d calculated would give John an unprecedentedly sustained orgasm. Useless, now. Sherlock tore a chart detailing John’s dental hygiene habits from the wall, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it violently into a corner. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said, in that no-nonsense army doctor voice he pulled out in the most dire moments, the voice Sherlock had been secretly hoping would make an appearance in the bedroom at some point. “Look at me.” 

Sherlock did, unwilling, yet unable to resist. 

“What is all this?” John asked, eyes guarded, voice steady.

“Data,” Sherlock answered shortly. 

“On me?” 

“Obviously.” 

John glanced down at the pages he held in his hand. Sherlock wanted to look away, but couldn’t. 

“What is it all _for_?” John asked. “Is it—does it have a, a particular purpose?” 

_To keep you here forever,_ Sherlock thought, but to say that now would be like putting his hand in a hot stove. Which he had done once, as an experiment, and the blinding pain felt about equivalent to all of this. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice brooked no argument. 

“It’s proof,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. 

“Proof of what?” 

But Sherlock had had enough. He turned away, pulling pushpins from the wall in rapid succession so the pages slid to the floor like leaves from trees. 

John said nothing for a long moment. _Go,_ Sherlock pleaded silently. _Just go. Don’t draw this out, I can’t bear it._ But John didn’t leave. Suddenly, in fact, he was next to Sherlock, picking up pages from the floor, piling them in his arms. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, alarmed. 

“I want them,” John replied matter-of-factly. “If you’re getting rid of them, I want them.” 

He scooped up another stack of papers and then turned on his heel, leaving Sherlock behind. The detective stood frozen, shocked, as he heard the doctor’s footsteps make their way across the flat. 

Sherlock strode out of the room. He stopped in the doorway of John’s bedroom, staring. John had taken up a roll of Sellotape and was plastering his walls with the “John” pages, ignoring the tears and rips in the papers, not bothering to organize them in any particular way, sticking “John’s Heart Rate During Intercourse” next to half of “Signs That John Is Angry.” He was displaying a few of those signs at the moment—a crease between his eyes, sharp movements, a lot of short exhalations of breath—but his predominant emotion seemed to be something else, something Sherlock didn’t have any data on. And his current pursuit was entirely mysterious. Sherlock felt horribly, dreadfully lost. 

“What are you doing?” he asked finally, hating to show John once again that he was incapable of deducing something, but hating even more the feeling of being in the dark. Why couldn’t John just leave and get it over with? “What do you want with those?” 

“Proof,” John said immediately, not stopping. 

Sherlock gave a short, derisive laugh. “Oh, very clever, John. As usual.” 

But the insult failed to affect the doctor, who simply kept taping pages to the wall. 

“Proof of what?” Sherlock snapped. John didn’t answer. Sherlock’s lip curled. “Proof of my foolishness?” 

“No,” John said simply, not turning away from his task. 

“Proof that this little— _experiment_ of ours has well and truly failed?” the detective asked viciously. He hadn’t expected this cruelty from John, and it wounded him more than was at all acceptable. 

“No.” 

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl. “Proof that you finally have the upper hand?” he suggested bitterly. Every word was like plunging a knife into his own chest, but he couldn’t stop. “Something to laugh at with your future _girlfriends_? Proof that, once upon a time, the world’s only consulting _idiot_ was madly in love with you?” 

John stopped. He turned around. Sherlock could not recognize a single thing that was happening on his face. It was terrifying. 

John strode across the room and kissed Sherlock fiercely on the mouth, slamming him back against the wall. Sherlock lost his balance, knees buckling beneath him, and they slid to the floor, John’s mouth still on Sherlock’s, his hands groping at Sherlock’s shirtfront. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, breaking away. His head was spinning. “What—why are you—?” 

John kissed him again, hard, his eyes flashing like steel. “Because,” he said, mouth almost on Sherlock’s, “I think it’s possible we just might make this work.” 

Sherlock blinked, feeling dizzy. John pulled back, crouching in front of him, trapping the detective against the wall with his knees. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t keep a note of supplication from his voice. This—whatever this was—was making John’s leaving a hundred times worse. 

“Okay,” John said, drawing in a breath. “I want to be perfectly clear on what’s happening right now.” He looked Sherlock in the eye. “So. We’re breaking up.” 

Sherlock felt his heart constrict. He nodded numbly. 

“Because of what happened today. Yesterday. Because of the kidnapping, and…” John hesitated. “The letter.” 

Sherlock nodded again, breaking eye contact, burning with shame. He didn’t want John to talk about the letter, didn’t want to think about the mistake he’d made, his failure, his exposure as a fraud. As an ordinary person. 

“Look,” John said in a sudden rush, “I’m sorry. I swear, Sherlock. I know it’s my fault, I know I distracted you. I know your work is the most important thing to you, and I’d never do anything to jeopardize that, and I promise that I can do better from now on. I won’t distract you again, I won’t even touch you when you’re on a case if that’s what it takes—” 

“John,” Sherlock rasped out, finally finding his voice beneath a sea of confusion. “What are you talking about?” 

John looked surprised, then wary, and a little disappointed. _Why?_ Sherlock wondered. 

“I’m talking about finding a way to make it work between us,” he said quietly. “If you’ll let me.” 

Something was roaring in Sherlock’s ears. “But,” he said, mouth opening and closing, “ _you’re_ leaving _me._ ” 

John looked stunned. “I’m—Sher—but— _why would you think that_?” 

“Because I made a mistake,” Sherlock whispered. “Because I failed. Because I wasn’t…brilliant. I wasn’t extraordinary.” 

Something was dawning in John’s eyes. He was shaking his head violently. “Sherlock, no, no, _I_ failed, I distracted you when you were looking at the letter, I distracted you with—with sentiment, and sex, and—it’s my fault, what happened, and I thought…I thought…” 

They looked at each other for a long moment. Sherlock felt something strange and alien and almost painful in his chest: he felt _hope._  

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “you didn’t make a mistake. But. Even if you did. I—I wouldn’t leave you for it. That’s…” 

“No,” Sherlock cut in. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t. Don’t take pity on me, John, I can’t—” 

“ _Pity_? Sherlock, do you even—” John stopped. “Hang on. Is that what these pages are about?” He waved his arm at the walls. “Proof. Proof that you’re—that you’re brilliant? That you, what, that you…” 

“That no one else can possibly do for you what I can,” Sherlock said, eyes still closed. He couldn’t help but be honest, now; he didn’t have the capacity, at the moment, to prevaricate or hide. “That I can be extraordinary for you.” 

John exhaled shakily, long and slow. “So you don’t…” He stopped. “Sherlock. Will you look at me for a second?” He put a hand gently on Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, just a little, ready to close them again at a moment’s notice if he needed to. 

“So you don’t think I—I’m a distraction? That I make you less brilliant? That I’m too ordinary, that I drag you down, that I—that I ruin you?” 

It took Sherlock a long moment to understand what John was asking. Then his eyes widened. “John,” he said. “I—I—don’t be an _idiot_.” 

John laughed, a short bark of a laugh, then sat down hard on the floor and ran his hands over his face. 

“John,” Sherlock pressed on, feeling desperate with confusion, “John, no, I don’t understand. I _failed_. I can’t fail. If I fail, if I’m not extraordinary, why—why would you possibly want to stay with me? I’m not a good man, John, you know that, and you _like_ good men, heroes, you do because you’re as close to one as you can get, and I—I’m a high-functioning sociopath who doesn’t eat and doesn’t sleep and spoils your milk with my experiments and hides cocaine in the pipes because my head is—is unbearable sometimes and John, if I’m not incredible then I’m just _detritus_ , I’m an error, a mistake—” 

John kissed him. He kissed him until sparks exploded in front of Sherlock’s eyes, until he couldn’t breathe anymore, until his body ceded control and he let John sink down, half-crouching on top of him as he gasped for air. 

“Okay,” John said, panting, lips swollen, his hands firm on Sherlock’s upper arms. “Listen to me. First of all, Sherlock, you _are_ extraordinary, and I don’t need you or anyone else to prove it to me. Secondly, I don’t care if you make a thousand mistakes, because it won’t change the way I see you or the way I feel about you one bit. You could utterly fail as a detective—not that you will, Christ, one slip-up doesn’t mean that—but you could stop doing it, you could become a—an actor or a banker or a _beekeeper_ , for god’s sake, and I would still love you and still stay with you for as long as you let me. You’re not an error, Sherlock, Jesus. You’re a _marvel_.” 

“But…” Sherlock struggled, not understanding, not quite believing—John meant it, he could see that, but the man must be _mad_. “But I—I’m supposed to be—I’m Sherlock Holmes, John. I _don’t make mistakes_.” 

“Yes you do,” John breathed, laughing—why was he laughing? He kissed Sherlock softly on the mouth, and Sherlock couldn’t help but kiss back, closing his eyes at the feel of John’s lips on his. “You’re making one right now. A pretty significant one, actually.” 

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked hoarsely, wondering what he could possibly be missing this time. 

“That I’m madly in love with _you_ , you idiot,” John replied, grinning. 

Sherlock looked wonderingly at John. He raised a tentative hand and caressed John’s face, slowly, as if feeling it for the first time. 

“So,” John said. “Enough of trying to prove you love me. I know you do. And I think you’re extraordinary, Sherlock, no matter what happens, and I’m sorry, but that’s not something you can change. You don’t have to try to control the way I see you—in fact, I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you’d see that you just don’t need to.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “ _You’re_ extraordinary,” he murmured. 

John laughed, shaking his head. 

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, suddenly urgent. “No,” he said firmly. “If you get to think that of me, no matter what, I get to think that of you.” 

John looked startled. Then he blinked slowly. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I guess that’s right.” 

They kissed again, and that was right, too.


	8. Mycroft, In Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mild mention of past self-harm.

Mycroft and Greg went back to Greg’s flat, and had a drink. They didn’t talk much—it turned out that both of them were more exhausted than they’d realized—but the silence was companionable, even relaxing. It was as if they’d suddenly struck some sort of balance between them. 

When Mycroft finished his glass of wine, he set it down on the floor, taking just a moment longer than he needed to straighten up again. When he did, Greg was watching him. They were sitting next to each other on the sofa, legs just shy of touching. Mycroft was nervous, but only a little—only, he thought, the normal amount for someone who was about to kiss the man he fancied after they’d had a glass of wine together. 

He brought his lips to meet Greg’s. The inspector returned the kiss gently, softly, unhurriedly, closing his eyes; Mycroft closed his too, relaxing into the intimacy of it. They broke apart after a long moment, but they didn’t separate all the way. Instead, Mycroft slid his arm around Greg’s waist, feeling his stomach flutter but also feeling steady and sure of Greg’s response. They embraced, and kissed again, and after slowly learning the feel of Greg’s chapped lips and the sweetness of the wine on his breath, Mycroft slid them both gently down along the length of the couch, so his weight rested lightly on top of the inspector’s. Greg’s hands drifted lazily down Mycroft’s back, and up again to his neck, and along either side of Mycroft’s torso. Mycroft closed his eyes, letting his body fill with a pleasant tingling sensation. 

He wanted this, exactly this, lying here pressed against Greg on the couch, both of them giving and taking, both of them setting the pace, which was neither frantic nor urgent. Someday, Mycroft knew, he would want again what he had wanted before—that terrifying, incredible loss of control, the frenzied _need_ to give himself up to Greg, mind and body. Probably someday soon. And he guessed that there would be times he would want control, and Greg would want to let him take it. But for now, tonight, everything was just right as they made love slowly and deliberately, shedding their clothes piece by piece and almost as if by afterthought, eventually making their way to Greg’s bed, where, naked and face to face, they moved against each other until both of them were gasping and breathless, hovering for what seemed an eternity in the sure grasp of each other’s arms.

 

 

They slept until Greg’s flat was bright with winter sunshine. Mycroft probably ought to have been answering phone calls and sending important memos, and Greg probably ought to have been at work, but when they awoke, neither of them felt the need to jump out of bed. Instead, they moved closer, still naked, a little sticky, but sleepy and contented. Mycroft had never woken up in bed with anyone before, and he’d always thought he’d find it an intrusion upon his precious privacy; but it was perfect, beautifully, dangerously perfect. 

“What?” Greg said as Mycroft smiled, a thought crossing his mind. Greg propped himself up on his elbow. “What is it?” 

“You could bring the country crashing to a halt, just by keeping me too long in bed in the mornings,” Mycroft said. His heart jumped at the admission. 

Greg smiled back, looking lazily wicked. “I intend to.” 

They were quiet for a moment. Mycroft dared to reach out his hand and caress Greg’s chest, savoring the feeling of the soft graying hair between his fingers. 

“You know,” he said quietly, not quite meeting Greg’s eyes, “this _is_ dangerous, what we’re doing.” 

He didn’t want to say it. But he knew it had to be said. If this was to continue, Greg would have to know the risks.

Greg brought a hand to Mycroft’s lips. “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft, the sour taste of morning strangely sweet in Greg’s mouth. “It could have been me instead of Sherlock yesterday. Once people know we’re together, I’m at risk. I know that. But it’s a danger I’m willing to take, if you are.” 

Mycroft couldn’t speak for a second, overwhelmed by Greg’s choice of the word _once_ , not _if._ Mycroft knew that if he said yes to what Greg was offering, he would have to change so much about his life—nearly everything, really, from his sleeping arrangements and eating habits to the security precautions he took and the face he presented to his supervisors, his peers, and the outside world. He would be vulnerable, now, in a way he had never been before. In some respects he would be less useful, less efficient, less effective, now that he had an obvious weakness and a place he wanted to be other than work. But, he thought, Greg had been right: Mycroft needed him. If Mycroft refused Greg, he knew he would slowly fall apart or dry up, into a heap of cloth or a brittle shell; and not only would he be equally ineffective in that state, he would also be deeply unhappy. 

“I’m willing,” Mycroft said. He stroked Greg’s face, the roughness of his stubble, and the softness of the skin below. “Yes.” 

They kissed again, and then Greg pulled Mycroft into the circle of his arms, so that Mycroft’s head rested on Greg’s chest, nestled in the hollow of his neck. Mycroft couldn’t recall ever feeling safer, or more at peace. 

“What’s this?” Greg asked softly, running his finger along a small white scar on Mycroft’s left wrist. “A relic of a past battle? A deadly knife fight? A James Bond car chase?” 

Greg was teasing, but Mycroft tensed involuntarily. Greg shifted to look him in the face. “Hey. What’s up? Did I put my foot in it somehow?” 

“No,” Mycroft said softly. “It’s all right.” He ran his own finger across the scar. It had been an accident, he hadn’t meant to press so hard that night, to draw blood with the unbent paperclip, but it had been touch and go for nearly a week with the Russians and the Chinese and when it was over all Mycroft had wanted to do was escape. 

“I used to…I used to hurt myself,” he said quietly. “Years ago. It was a…a sort of release.” He’d never told anyone this before, but Greg’s brown eyes were gentle, and it felt good, surprisingly good, to say it aloud. 

Greg looked sad, but not frightened or judgmental. “What made you stop?” 

Mycroft stroked Greg’s head, the side of his face, his chest, and felt a lump in his throat. “You,” he said simply. 

Greg was quiet, but his hand found its way into Mycroft’s hair, threading through it soothingly, over and over. But after a moment he stopped, looking worried. 

“Mycroft,” he said, brow creasing, “the—our first time. In your office. I—I dug my fingernails into your sides. Your legs. I hurt you. Did I—should I not have—” 

Mycroft shook his head. It was true that at the time, Greg’s fingers in his skin had reminded him of his own. But he understood now how different it had been.

“When I hurt myself, it was dangerous,” he said softly. “There was nobody but me to control myself, to keep me from going too far. But when you do it…you’re in control. And I know you won’t ever hurt me in a way—a way I don’t want.” 

“You have to tell me if I do,” Greg said immediately. “The moment I start to, you have to tell me to stop.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I know.” 

“I mean it, Mycroft,” Greg said, serious. “You can’t use me to hurt yourself. Not like that. Not ever.” 

Mycroft shuddered at the thought. He knew what Greg meant, and why he needed to say it. But no matter how bad things got, no matter how much Mycroft wanted to lose himself or punish himself, he knew he would never, _could_ never, do that to Greg. “I promise I won’t.” 

Greg nodded. “I trust you.” 

They were the right words, just the right words, and Mycroft couldn’t imagine what he’d possibly done to deserve them. And he could think of so _many_ things he’d done that should have broken Greg’s trust a thousand times over. And yet here he was, in the circle of the man’s arms, warm and safe, and Greg had given part of himself to Mycroft, because Mycroft had needed him to. 

“I trust you too,” Mycroft whispered back, and gave a part of himself to Greg, silently, wholeheartedly, feeling himself, for once in his life, at peace, and complete.


End file.
